Every now and then, the word ‘singularity’ is used to describe a particular wine that stands apart, for whatever reason, from other wines of its type. But just what is singularity, and how can wine express it? Wine writer Tamlyn Currin investigates.

What makes a wine truly singular? Tamlyn Currin explores the rare bottles that defy convention and challenge the rules of the wine world.

Searching for Singularity in wine

Searching for Singularity

Sitting opposite us, the dark-suited, dark-haired figure waved an elegant hand at the bottle of white Burgundy which he’d just fished out of a carrier bag and planted on the table with the air of a conjuror at a party. “You’ll like this,” he said; it was a statement, not a suggestion, delivered in a faint accent with American overtones and a hint of gutturality. In this totally unremarkable West London pub, a bottle of Meursault looked as out of place as a KGB officer. Which he was. We did like it, of course, who wouldn’t? It made the greasy steak and chips almost bearable, and was one of the best wines I’d ever tasted at that point in my life. I was 33 that year, 1978, and as a newish BBC foreign correspondent I wasn’t particularly well paid. He’d brought the Meursault with him to show us how sophisticated he was, and to counter the blandness of the food. But why had he suggested The Mitre as a place for lunch? It was handy for the Soviet embassy up the road, certainly; but I realised that the real attraction for him was the high-backed seats that enclosed our table and kept our conversation private. Sergei was a major in the KGB, masquerading as a press attaché. The habit of secrecy was deeply ingrained in him. The Meursault started to work on my companion, a gossipy, amusing, slightly naïve BBC executive. It worked on me, too, but under the influence of alcohol I tend to go quiet and introverted. Not so Harry. He delivered the brief lecture about Soviet harassment of our Moscow correspondent which he’d been planning. It wasn’t bad, but it didn’t make Sergei burst into tears. On the contrary. “Ah, yes, the famous Declan.” Sergei managed to put the accent on the second syllable. “Such good Russian. A pity he wastes his time hanging around those drop-outs and wastrels.” I was particularly impressed by ‘wastrels’. “I suppose you mean dissidents,” I said, pushing my glass across for more Meursault. The label read ‘1968’; the Soviet embassy must have had a superb cellar. Sergei laughed scornfully and poured. “I hear Declan’s marriage isn’t going so good now,” he said. “Ah, no, his wife left him for an airline pilot,” Harry replied, giggling. I kicked him sharply: you didn’t feed personal details about your colleagues to KGB officers. “What?” Harry said, looking at me. We saw the bottle out. Sometimes I think I can still taste that rich, green-gold collection of butter, almond, citrus and, could it have been, or is it just my imagination after more than 40 years, hints of bracken and mayflower. At the end, we stood up and shook hands. “So you’ll go easy on Declan from now on?” Harry said. “Well, Declan must stop creating bad propaganda against the Soviet Union.” He had a good ear: this time the accent was on the first syllable. Sergei turned in the direction of the embassy, and we headed back to Television Centre. “Bloody good wine those Russkies can afford,” Harry said, and gave his high-pitched laugh.For journalists and spies, booze is a famous lubricant, a fuel, even. I came from a teetotal background, yet when I started as a foreign correspondent I soon found myself ordering a glass of single malt as a means of self-protection, while someone I was trying to pump for information opened up and talked in a way he or she never would if I’d ordered a Britvic orange. Yet there were exceptions. In Belfast and Derry, where I started my reporting career, the leaders of the Provisional IRA were mostly ultra-Catholic and never drank a drop; and as I branched out and began reporting on the Middle East, I found that organisations like Hezbollah and the followers of the Ayatollah were as teetotal as I had once been. There were no bars to meet them in, either. Fortunately, though, cities like Cairo and Beirut were more sophisticated. I soon found that anywhere with a sizeable Christian population, Egypt and Lebanon, of course, but also Syria, Iraq and westernised countries like Turkey and Pakistan, made allowances for thirsty westerners and permitted them to drink, even if in cities like Peshawar you had to sign a big leather volume and register yourself as an alcoholic. The bar in the old Commodore Hotel in Beirut was a wonderful centre for professional alcoholics of this kind. I first went there in June 1982, when West Beirut was under hourly attack from Israeli planes and tanks, and there were no shelters to protect us. The presiding spirit of the place was a correspondent called Chris Drake, a hospitable soul who dispensed booze and information even-handedly. When the barrage was going on, it would have been suicidal to leave the Commodore, and the building shuddered to every nearby explosion. Chris Drake had a parrot, and when the bar was packed in the evening with journalists glad to still be alive, it would imitate the sound of a shell in flight with startling accuracy. Most of the people there, not me, thank God, had walked into the bar on their first night, heard the parrot’s hugely convincing whistle, and thrown themselves on the floor shouting “Incoming!”. There would be a roar of laughter, and someone would help them up and offer them a glass of arak, an infusion of grapes and the seeds of the anise plant. I acquired a real taste for arak at that time, and I still think of that slightly oily, metallic, liquorice-tasting liquid hitting the back of my throat and burning its way down. A few years later, during another upsurge of fighting, the Commodore was heavily shelled by the Syrian army. The building was destroyed, and no trace of the parrot was ever found. When peace was restored and there was money around, the Commodore was rebuilt, much bigger and more glitzy, but the architect designed a new bar precisely where the old one had once been. You can still see the space on the floor where many a famous journalist measured his length when the parrot did its party trick. I took my wife and 13-year-old son there a couple of years ago, and one afternoon, when the bar was empty, my son insisted on re-enacting the whole thing. In China, things were different. Meetings with underground figures usually took place at their homes or outdoors, given the fear of surveillance. I often chose Ritan Park in Beijing, where teahouses served pu-erh tea and offered a discreet place to talk. By contrast, official meetings required alcohol, specifically Maotai, a fierce baijiu distilled from sorghum at over 50% ABV. At one banquet, after being insulted by a local Party official, I tried to outdrink him. The plan failed, he had help, but we still ended the night collapsed together, singing in two languages. The next day, I was told this had enhanced British prestige. Countries where alcohol is banned present different challenges. In Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, I smuggled in a 27-year-old bottle of Laphroaig disguised as Fanta, only to pour it down the toilet when soldiers began searching rooms for alcohol. They never entered mine. After the fall of the Soviet Union, I tried to track Sergei down but never found him. Before that, though, I had taken my revenge by signing him up to every unwanted mailing list I could find, encyclopaedias, dubious magazines, and more inventive subscriptions besides. It made me feel very good.And yet, if I imagine meeting him again, I always picture the same thing: Sergei standing in the doorway, holding a superb bottle of Meursault. For that, at least, I’ve always been grateful. This article was written by John Simpson, who reflects on his experiences reporting across the world, and the role alcohol has played in the art of face-to-face reconnaissance. Illustrations by Natsko Seki. Originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

BBC world affairs editor John Simpson reflects on reporting from conflict zones, recalling memorable bars, encounters and the role alcohol plays in the subtle art of face-to-face reconnaissance.

BBC world affairs editor John Simpson on bars, encounters and how alcohol shapes reporting, trust and intelligence gathering worldwide.

John Simpson on bars, spies and the art of reporting

Refuge,  refreshment & reconnaissance

I. Distractions In 1987, when I was 18 and a dollar was worth more than twice as much as it is today, I started reading magazines: M, Esquire, GQ. Nearby, in our somewhat cultured Texas town, a new bookstore opened in a cavernous space that had formerly housed the shag-carpeted roller skating rink of our childhood. Through the front windows, which had before been darkly tinted to give the place an alluring den-of-prepubescent-iniquity vibe, now streamed bright, clean light, showcasing a look and layout that would become the interior design gestalt of today’s national-chain, big-box book superstore. The rows upon rows of open, dustless shelving bearing a veritable warehouse of volumes; the ceiling hung with its industrial innards on display; the enfilade of check-out cubicles; and the wall – the great wall – that displayed a preposterous-to-behold assortment of glossies, quarterlies, journals, newsweeklies, fanzines, tabloids, almanacs, and all other flora and fauna of magazines arrayed upon a rack perhaps 50 feet long.  I went in there to look for a book. I liked books, and, one day, I was sure I wanted to write one. But I got distracted and bought a magazine instead – that August’s issue of GQ, which still stands out in my mind as a thing of formative significance. At that time, the zeitgeist was defined by a Walkman-wearing version of the American Renaissance Man – the highly-ambitious, status-obsessed, money-motivated, health-nut known as a Yuppie. No magazine positioned itself more authoritatively in defining this new sociological creature’s lifestyle than GQ, and it did it with whiter teeth, snappier suspenders, better accessories, bigger polka dots and more caffeine in the ink of its display copy.  I remember that issue less for the photos by Richard Avedon or Steven Meisel, the words of Martin Amis or Frederick Exley, than for this: Erzeugerabfüllung. It was one of the longest, strangest strings of letters from the Roman alphabet I had ever seen. Neither did it seem designed to come out of someone’s mouth. But there it was in Alan Richman’s Wine & Spirits column, accompanied by a lovely still-life photograph of his topic: two bottles of Riesling Kabinetts on a white, sun-dappled tablecloth. Richman’s main point – made almost 35 years ago – still holds true: estate-bottled, table-quality German wines remain some of the least expensive, most delicious wines in the world, chiefly because – then as now – the labels, as he wrote, “cannot be understood by anyone who is not a part-time oenophile, linguist and cartographer”. One US dollar in Richman’s pocket, as I have already said, bought what roughly two-dollars-and-fifty-cents does today; what he was on the hunt for was a good dry white in a range that would now cost somewhere between 12 and 30 bucks, and he easily accomplished that by finding a dealer in New York City who carried a good selection of wines from the Mosel and Rheingau. At the time, I didn’t know the meaning or significance of any of this, but it staked a claim in my brain. The only wine I had ever tasted was the one served at our Episcopal church during Eucharist on Sundays. The flavour it had was of a strange, super-concentrated jam that somehow warmed your upper body. Even as a young kid, I liked it. But the adjectives these German bottles were squeezing out of Richman – “citrus-like”, “honeyed”, “tart-sweet” – weren’t close to describing what was in that chalice, even if you believed in transubstantiation. Was it because Richman’s wine was white, and the parish’s was red? Perhaps, but both colours of grape juice bottled by Welch’s tasted pretty much the same to me. No, I sensed there was something – a lot – I had to learn, and, along with the romance and beauty of the labels, and the contextual air of well-bred taste and cultural with-it-ness featured on the other pages, this, I feel sure, was the decisive moment, the true origin point, when I came to believe that among the many extraordinary things that make life worth living, not just words but wine reigns at the top.  I warned you about distractions, didn’t I? Because that would be my excuse for now informing you, as a quite apropos footnote, that, yes, there was something unusual about our church’s Communion wine. It was, as I have confirmed with the church, actually port (Taylor’s Tawny, to be more accurate), cut, according to tradition, with water. There is a good and fascinating reason for this. In 1701, when the War of the Spanish Succession kicked off, France also became an enemy of England, and its wines, as a result, were no longer made available for import. The Anglican Church searched for and found a replacement, the fortified wines of its new ally, Portugal, and port continues to be an acceptable option to pair with the Host.  II. Distillations A satisfying story, not unlike a satisfying life, is one that surprises you with the mystery of its unfolding. A thing pulls in a certain direction long enough to reach the proximity of something else which then turns toward a new destination. I had actually gone into that bookstore, as I said, to look at books. But I came out, even though I didn’t yet know it, with a different compass point. Within a few years, shortly after graduating from college, in 1992, I got hired by The New Yorker, where I stayed for almost nine years. I then met my future wife, who wisely laughed at the thought we might be able to survive in New York City on my meagre salary, so I went to Vogue, and soon after became the founding editor of Men’s Vogue. After 23 issues, and four years, the financial crisis laid an axe to many magazines, including that one. Eventually, I took on the editorship of Town & Country. Then, finally, in 2016, I moved up to Esquire, the magazine, as it happens, that didn’t offer me a job when The New Yorker did, and became that storied magazine’s editor in chief, until – well, you best read about that in The New York Times.  As far as distractions go, magazines were a good one. They made me who I am, gave me a tremendously worldly education, honed my taste, introduced me to all manner of accomplished people, required me to build quite a wardrobe, and paid me pretty well to do all of this, often with a glass of wine not far out of the picture. There was really no other way I would have ever got to taste all the bottles I have (a lot of the big names people whisper about from Burgundy and Bordeaux, Champagne and also Piedmont, Tuscany and Napa). I built a modest cave à vin of my own by buying the Smith Haut Lafittes of the world way before hedge-fund hoi polloi ran up the prices, and by having access to rare offerings, like 12 bottles of Fiorano, the legendary white wine Alberico Boncompagni Ludovisi, prince of Venosa, made before ripping out all his vines. I smelled the musty perfume of Margaux in the cellar as I watched the workers rack the wine by candlelight. I lured Jay McInerney away from the Wall Street Journal to become my wine columnist; and I once stood in Bordeaux’s town square, tight on 2002 Pétrus, trying with great focus to commune with the statue of Michel de Montaigne while my French friend, a true oenophile, extolled the majesty of the Big Mac’s special sauce.  As the editor of a magazine, curiosity is your profession, even to the point of distraction. Editors – writers, too – are prone to it. It’s a hazard of the gift, and having a jumble of ideas, if you’re any good, is key to making a magazine of any real intellectual or creative daring. Now as a husband and father of three, working from home and trying to be ‘present’, and a still youngish former editor and occasional micro-influencer trying to stave off the solitude to fathom and plot the next phase of a fruitful future, this skill of mine, the strength of which became even more magnified over two decades, is something of a family project.  The way I most often hear the word ‘distraction’ now, for instance, is when it’s being hurled at me in verb form by my wife or daughters accusing me of being more of a phone-enslaved screen vegetable than they are. (I respectfully disagree.) But it’s a sore point for two reasons. One, what I did as an editor is, in a nutshell, now what a smartphone essentially does. Not very imaginatively, of course, and not with taste or charm or originality, but with a bloody, money-grubbing ruthlessness that stalks every step of our digital peregrinations and doesn’t give a twist if the algorithms that are its brain make us its slave by retrofitting our attention spans for kindergarten.  The smartphone – not the former me or any of my fellow kind still in the media biz – is now the true croupier of culture, dealing out a targeted shuffle of Pavlovian temptations to the point of daily mental exhaustion. And, though this thing is in many ways my personal nemesis, I am, against every fibre of my being, too often its obedient servant. Aiming not to live according to the famous line by T.S. Eliot – “distracted from distraction by distraction” – I recently decided to at least take a serious inventory of my favourite ones, both those of the pre-digital sort (tennis, The Walking Dead, checking the mailbox, my sock collection) and those of the post-digital sort (the any and everything I do because my phone wants me to). Then I caught myself watching tennis on my phone and realised this might be harder than I thought. It’s enough to drive a person to drink, thank god! With that in mind, I like to keep a special something for the occasion around, in this case – what else? – two bottles of Riesling Kabinett, for it had struck me as more than a little weird that I’ve probably tasted fewer than a handful of German wines in my entire life. Part of the reason is that those I had were bad, and, like a lot of other simpletons about this great wine region of the world, I’d come to think of Riesling as a cloying elixir equal parts green Jolly Rancher, apple cider vinegar, and hairspray. This, I knew, was wrong, not true and, in terms of wine equity and inclusion, on the wrong side of history. But, if you happen to live in a place like I do – a bourgie swathe of Connecticut bordering New York City where the shops cater heavily to Cali-Fran-Taly banker’s tastes – it might take you a few stops to find what Richman recommended, an erzeugerabfüllung (estate-bottled) Kabinett (wine made from grapes with a minimum must weight/sugar content) Riesling, and when you do it will probably be coated in a fine sift of years-old dust. I bought a green (Mosel) bottle for US$16 and a brown (Rhine) bottle for US$20, both handsomely labelled. I opened them a few minutes ago and took several investigative swigs. The words bright, invigorating and snappy came to mind. One is indeed sweeter, and, though not my usual jam, it is tamped by a pleasing peachy tartness, and the classic overtone of honey isn’t making my palate feel doused with syrup. The other example is, as Richman said so long ago, a very finely layered creature with mineral clarity and an echo of baked bread, something a gluten-free person like me finds particularly appealing. A rather obvious thought: why haven’t I been buying this instead of throwing a ton of endless money at affordably bad white Burgundy, which is mostly a product aimed at fulfilling a desired outcome, like White Claw hard seltzer? III. Words But don’t let me get distracted, again. A writer really has to be careful about such things. Just think about it. Unlike, say, a painter or musician or actor or photographer, the process of writing requires zero physical exertion, no chance to score an endorphin release while sitting staring anxiously at a blank page. Of the many things in life that vie against the counter intuitive impulse to be glued to a desk, Cyril Connolly, in Enemies of Promise, his classic study of the things that distracted him (and others) from becoming a great writer, names the temptations but does not say much about why they’re so deeply tempting to someone who would otherwise be sitting alone in an empty room. Praise, money, fame, social prominence, affairs and journalism are the most common boltholes, according to Connolly, who, as a famously late sleeper that married three times, might have also added the bliss of unconsciousness and excessive alimony. In 1938, the year the book was published, he would never have imagined how hard the task might get without a cigarette. Smoking is a death wish, I know, but when you want to off yourself for still having a hundred pages to go, being able to snap open a nice lighter, flick some ash, stub a butt and inhale some lungfuls of focus-enhancing nicotine must have been kind of helpful. Connolly also doesn’t have much to say about drink except that artists who drink to excess do so “out of the consciousness of wasted ability”. According to that, the 20th century’s most famous literary alcoholics – Dorothy Parker, Truman Capote, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Styron, Elizabeth Bishop, James Joyce, Raymond Chandler, William Faulkner – might have left behind even greater treasures than they did. Because Ernest Hemingway did almost everything with more gusto than any of his peers, including running up his bar tab, as a drinker he belongs in his own sentence. He is the novelist who most romanced a good drink or nice bottle of wine as one of life’s great pleasures. Who didn’t want to have a vermouth with Jake when reading The Sun Also Rises? (Don’t, it’s gross, at least if you order it at one of those kiosks in Montmartre where the bottles are hung upside down with spring-loaded dispensers.) Or, track down a bottle of Valdepeñas, Hemingway’s favourite variety of Spanish wine. Or, get a drink at the bar named after him at the Ritz, in Paris, and then go somewhere on the Left Bank to order “a dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine”.  In the early work, he is not boastful about drinking so much as he is the possessor of an unusual appetite for a good buzz. He is also, like Connolly, aware of the need to keep writing separate from drinking, and drinking within his control. It is hard to read the first paragraph of A Moveable Feast, in which he describes an “evilly run café where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together and I kept away from it because of the smell of dirty bodies and the sour smell of drunkenness”, except as a kind of terrifying admonition to himself. It is tragic that he didn’t heed his own advice. Late in his life, Hemingway became fond of rum daiquiris at the Floridita, his favourite bar in Havana, which might explain his taste for a prose style that soon became too often cloying self-parody. In one of the most extraordinary drinking sessions ever committed to words, in the roman à clef Across the River and Into the Trees, a 50-year-old Hemingway, who was smitten with a teenage Italian countess from Venice, fictionalises his infatuation with a last muse. In one stretch (that covers an evening-to-dawn crawl from Harry’s Bar, the grill at the Gritti Palace, a gondola and a hotel room), one half or another of the couple imbibes: one scotch whisky and soda; six Montgomery Martinis (15 parts gin; 1 part vermouth), two of which are described in size as ‘super’; a bottle of Capri Bianco; two bottles of Valpolicella; two bottles of Roederer Brut ’42; and two bottles of Perrier-Jouët. That is, I suppose, one extreme, and, clearly, not one to be tried at home.  The other might have been espoused by Dr. Samuel Johnson, the great critic and lexicographer. As a young man, he’d drained “many a bottle of wine” but loved port especially. (Perhaps Johnson, a devout Anglican who was born in 1709, in the midst of England’s 14-year war with Spain, also first encountered port as a boy at the Communion altar.) He describes himself to friend and biographer James Boswell as having been “apt to go to excess in it”, adding that, “therefore, after having been for some time without it, on account of illness, I thought it better not to return to it”.  Boswell, who worried about his own dependence on alcohol, even keeping a journal of his intake in an attempt to enforce moderation, argued for a third way, which some of the Romantics later adopted. Wine, he claimed, “produces truth; in vino veritas”. Hoping to persuade Johnson of his point, Boswell once convinced the critic to come down off the wagon for just one glass of claret, so Johnson “might judge, not from recollection, which might be dim, but from immediate sensation”. Boswell reports what happened after the glass was emptied: “Johnson shook his head, and said, ‘Poor stuff! No, Sir, claret is the liquor for boys; port, for men,’” adding, “‘A man would be drowned by it before it made him drunk.’”  That actually reminds me of something I think I forgot to mention about Riesling Kabinetts – they’re also highly admired for their low percentage of alcohol. On that note, I think I’ll have another glass.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

Jay Fielden, former editor of Men’s Vogue, Town & Country and Esquire, recalls how a magazine column on wine, read in a Texas bookstore, shifted his ambitions beyond journalism and set him on the path to becoming a writer of books.

Former Esquire editor-in-chief Jay Fielden reflects on magazines, writing, Riesling Kabinett and the distractions that shaped a life in words and wine.

Jay Fielden on Wine, Words and Distraction

How one became another  

After the difficult conditions of 2024, Bordeaux has delivered a vintage that has surprised almost everyone. The 2025 growing season was among the hottest and driest of recent decades, with yields collapsing across much of the region. Yet rather than producing another 2022-style vintage of power and opulence, the wines have emerged with freshness, moderate alcohols and remarkable aromatic precision. Almost every major critic references the same paradox: a year that looked destined to produce massive wines instead yielded bottles of energy, balance and finesse. There is less agreement on where 2025 ultimately sits among Bordeaux's recent great vintages. Some critics compare it to 2016, others to 2019, 2020 or even 1961. What they largely agree on, however, is that the best wines are outstanding – and that this is a vintage where terroir, vineyard management and winemaking decisions matter enormously. William Kelley – Wine Advocate William Kelley sees 2025 as a vintage that reveals rather than conceals. He describes it as a "clarifier" rather than an amplifier, arguing that the wines expose differences in terroir, viticulture and winemaking with unusual transparency. Although the growing season was dominated by heat and drought, Kelley believes the resulting wines are fundamentally different from 2022. Cooler nights, lower alcohols and timely late-season rain produced wines that combine concentration, ripeness and freshness in a way that feels distinctive. He repeatedly returns to the notion that the best 2025s are classically proportioned despite their intensity. Unlike some critics, Kelley is reluctant to identify a single winning appellation. Instead, he sees success as highly estate-specific, with the finest wines distinguished by balance, precision and restraint rather than sheer power. Kelley's highlights: Larcis Ducasse, Jean Faure, Sociando-Mallet, Quinault l'Enclos, Le Pin Beausoleil Explore Kelley's full report, notes and scores on Wine Advocate (subscribers only). Jane Anson – Inside Bordeaux For Jane Anson, 2025 is "the paradox vintage". The best wines are immensely impressive, but she cautions strongly against broad-brush conclusions. Anson places the vintage comfortably ahead of 2017, 2021 and 2024, and broadly alongside 2015 and 2019 in terms of potential. Yet she repeatedly notes that this is not a year where collectors can buy indiscriminately. Low pH levels, high acidity and significant tannic structure mean some wines will require patience, while others may never fully resolve. She sees the strongest performances coming from Bordeaux's great water-regulating terroirs, particularly the limestone and clay soils of Saint-Émilion and the best parts of the Left Bank. Pomerol is more variable, with dramatic differences depending on soil type and water retention. Anson's wine of the vintage is Beauséjour Duffau-Lagarrosse, while Canon, Petrus, Cheval Blanc and Château Margaux all feature prominently among her highest-rated wines. Anson's highlights: Ch. Haut Bailly, Mouton Rothschild, Margaux, Smith Haut Lafitte, Leoville Las Cases, Petrus, Beauséjour, Vieux Château Certan, Lafleur,  Tertre Roteboeuf, Haut-Brion Blanc, Les Champs Libres, Doisy-Daëne,  Aile d'Argent Blanc, Pavillon Blanc Read Jane Anson’s report on the Left Bank, Right Bank and white wine on Inside Bordeaux (subscribers only). Antonio Galloni – Vinous Antonio Galloni is one of the most enthusiastic commentators on the vintage, describing the finest wines as "nothing short of thrilling". What impresses him most is the combination of concentration and freshness. The summer heat delivered tiny berries and naturally low yields, yet many wines finished with surprisingly moderate alcohol levels and striking aromatic lift. Galloni believes modern viticulture played a critical role, allowing producers to navigate extreme conditions more successfully than would have been possible a generation ago. He identifies Margaux as the appellation of the vintage and describes Pauillac as "jam-packed with great wines". Saint-Émilion's clay-limestone plateau also impressed him enormously. Pomerol, meanwhile, is the region he found most inconsistent. Galloni also highlights several lesser-known estates that he believes overperformed in 2025, noting that some of the vintage's most exciting discoveries may come outside Bordeaux's traditional elite. Galloni's highlights: Beau-Séjour Bécot, Canon, La Gaffelière, Troplong Mondot, La Mission Haut-Brion, L'If, Margaux, Lafite Rothschild Explore Antonio Galloni's full report, notes and scores on Vinous (subscribers only). Neal Martin – Vinous Neal Martin describes 2025 as a vintage that constantly defies expectations. He argues that the late-August rain fundamentally changed the trajectory of the year, turning what appeared destined to become another 2022 into something altogether more nuanced. Martin calls it "a dialled-down and more precise 2010", a comparison that appears repeatedly throughout his report. He finds concentration and structure, but also freshness, restraint and remarkable aromatic detail. Like Galloni, he is highly enthusiastic about the Left Bank, particularly Pauillac, Saint-Julien and Saint-Estèphe. He also believes several of the greatest successes come from Saint-Émilion's limestone soils, while Pomerol shows more variation than many neighbouring appellations. Perhaps most notably, Martin sees 2025 as one of the strongest recent vintages for Sauternes, praising the purity and freshness of the best sweet wines. Martin's highlights: Montrose, Haut-Brion, Lafite Rothschild, Lafleur, Petrus, Latour Explore Neal Martin's full report, notes and scores on Vinous (subscribers only). James Suckling James Suckling describes 2025 as one of the most exciting Bordeaux vintages he has encountered in more than forty years of tasting barrel samples. He repeatedly returns to the contrast between expectation and reality. On paper, the growing season suggested another powerful, solar vintage. Instead, he found wines with what he calls "unique purity and tension", combining moderate alcohol, vibrant acidity and impressive concentration. For Suckling, 2025 is above all "a great vintage for great terroir". He argues that the region's finest vineyards adapted brilliantly to the challenges of the year, producing wines that are both intensely expressive and remarkably balanced. Although he acknowledges inconsistency across the region, he believes the best wines can stand alongside Bordeaux's leading modern vintages. Suckling's highlights: Château Margaux, Mouton Rothschild, Lafite Rothschild, Petrus, Le Pin, Ausone, Angélus, Les Carmes Haut-Brion Read part one and two of James Suckling’s report, along with his full notes and scores on JamesSuckling.com (subscribers only). Georgie Hindle – Decanter Georgie Hindle describes 2025 as both "paradoxical" and "miraculous", two words that neatly capture the mood of many critics tasting the vintage. She notes that almost everything about the growing season pointed towards a rich, powerful vintage. Yet the wines themselves display freshness, poise and balance rather than opulence. The crucial turning point, in her view, was the late-August rain that arrived after months of drought and completely reshaped the vintage's trajectory. Hindle argues that terroir and winemaking decisions were decisive. Producers who adapted extraction techniques and handled the naturally high tannin levels carefully were rewarded with wines of precision and elegance. Others were less successful. While she believes the best wines are exceptional, she is clear that 2025 lacks the broad consistency of 2022 and should be approached selectively. Hindle's highlights: Beauséjour, Cheval Blanc, Haut-Bailly, Haut-Brion, Margaux, Mouton Rothschild, Petrus, Vieux Château Certan Explore Georgie Hindle's coverage on Decanter (subscribers only). Jeb Dunnuck Jeb Dunnuck compares 2025 to a modern-day version of 1961, citing tiny yields, drought conditions and extraordinary concentration. Yet unlike the blockbuster vintages often associated with hot years, Dunnuck finds the wines surprisingly fresh and elegant. He repeatedly highlights the role of cooler nights and late-season rainfall in preserving balance and preventing overripeness. He sees Saint-Émilion as one of the stars of the vintage, while also praising the best wines of Pauillac, Saint-Julien and Pomerol. Like several critics, he believes value-conscious collectors should look closely at Castillon and Fronsac, where some producers delivered outstanding quality relative to price. Dunnuck's highlights: Margaux, Haut-Brion, Léoville Las Cases, Montrose, Le Pin, Ducru-Beaucaillou, Mouton Rothschild, Petrus, Figeac, Beauséjour Explore Jeb Dunnuck's full report, notes and scores on JebDunnuck.com (subscribers only). James Lawther MW – Jancis Robinson James Lawther sees 2025 as one of Bordeaux's most pleasant surprises. He notes that despite being one of the hottest vintages of the last thirty years, the wines possess freshness, moderate alcohol levels and considerable charm. The defining feature for Lawther is the combination of power and approachability — wines that have both concentration and an almost unexpected amiability. Cabernet Sauvignon particularly impressed him, especially in Pauillac and Saint-Estèphe, while Saint-Émilion's limestone-rich soils again proved highly resilient in drought conditions. Pomerol was less straightforward, producing some brilliant wines alongside more uneven results. Lawther is also highly positive about Sauternes, which he considers one of the vintage's major success stories. Lawther's highlights: Palmer, Pavie, Suduiraut, Mouton Rothschild, Cheval Blanc Explore James Lawther MW's full reports, notes and scores on JancisRobinson.com (subscribers only). Read James Lawther MW’s report on the Left Bank, Right Bank and white wine on Inside Bordeaux (subscribers only). Explore Bordeaux 2025

As the Bordeaux 2025 campaign draws to a close, we review the critics' verdicts on one of the decade's most intriguing vintages and the wines that emerged as their standout performers.

Your essential crib-sheet to what the world’s leading wine critics are saying about Bordeaux 2025 en primeur–including Wine Advocate, Vinous and more

Bordeaux 2025 en primeur – what the critics are saying 

Bordeaux 2025: what the critics are saying

2001 Chambolle-Musigny, Premier Cru, Les Amoureuses, Domaine Jacques-Frédéric Mugnier (and lashings of Beaujolais) – chosen by Daniel Johnnes, Wine Director of The Dinex Group and Founder of La Paulée, La Fête du Champagne, La Tablée and Pressoir  “This holiday I plan on opening several bottles of great wine. Great doesn't necessarily mean expensive or rare. I'll be sure to drink plenty of Beaujolais and mostly from my favorite producers, Morgon from Marcel Lapierre, Fleurie from Jean-Louis Dutraive and Chiroubles from Domaine Thillardon. As much as they are "drink everyday" wines, they also have the magic power of putting a smile on everyone's face.  “Yet, for that really special wine, I plan on opening a bottle of Chambolle-Musigny Premier Cru Les Amoureuses 2001 from Domaine Jacques-Frédéric Mugnier. Chambolle-Musigny is among my favorite villages in Burgundy and the Amoureuses vineyard could easily make a case to be classified as Grand Cru. It combines the perfume, texture, elegance and persistence typical of the very best red Burgundy. The style of Domaine Mugnier is one of refinement and grace. And with 20-plus years’ age, it should be perfect for drinking now. Even though it will accompany a roast chicken, this wine is like a celebration and a meal in and of itself.”  2018 Klein Constantia Vin de Constance – chosen by Jeffrey Koren, Head of Wine at Marceline, London  “While it’s easy to open a perfunctory bottle of Port or Sauternes at the end of a Christmas meal, the oh-so-delicious Vin de Constance by Klein Constantia has become my go-to sweet wine for the festive period over the past few years. Steeped in history, Vin de Constance was famously a favourite of Napoleon and lauded by authors like Jane Austen and Baudelaire. These days, winemaker Matt Day has revived this legendary dessert wine to its former acclaim. It always offers wonderful notes of apricot, honey and spice. But most importantly, it’s balanced by refreshing acidity that is an absolute necessity after an indulgent holiday meal.”  Hauller Frères Pinot Gris La Chappelle Signature – chosen by Joséphine Duffau-Lagarrosse, Ch. Beauséjour   “Ludovic Hauller is a long-standing friend I met during my studies in Burgundy. I appreciate the precision that his family channels into the wines, and this cuvée showcases great finesse, with freshness and elegance, mirroring the granite terroir in which the vines grow. It’s a Pinot Gris of remarkable complexity, hailing from a plot that sits below the Chapelle Saint-Sébastien de Dambach-la-Ville. Ludovic introduced me to Alsatian wines, which I knew little of previously, and I love this cuvée. As for when, this is definitely the kind of bottle I would open in the days following Christmas, with my family, playing board games by the fire and putting the world to rights, patiently waiting for the New Year!”  2002 Champagne Salon, Giuseppe Mascarello’s 2017 Barolo Villero, Tiberio’s 2018 Colle Vota – chosen by Lorenza Sebasti, Castello di Ama  “As usual, this Christmas we will open a magnum of 2002 Champagne Salon. I remember we had the chance to buy a few magnums a long time ago as they were precisely the birth years of our children (1997, 1999 and 2002). Then I guess I will spoil everyone at home with a beautiful Barolo Giuseppe Mascarello Villero 2017 and Colle Vota Montepulciano d’Abruzzo 2018 from my dear friend Cristiana Tiberio. She makes very few bottles of this very elegant and vibrant wine, which is among my favourite reds.”  2021 La Morandina Moscato d’Asti – chosen by Donald Edwards, Head Sommelier at La Trompette, London  “Beyond the best white Burgundy I can lay my grubby mits on, I’ll be cracking the second bottle on a case of La Morandina’s 2021 Moscato d’Asti – part of a new festive tradition. Back when my wine appreciation was still protean, I heard a rumour that Moscato d’Asti – the sweet fizzy floral stuff that we sold in my Glasgow Oddbins – ages magnificently. Twenty or so years later, I’m the Head Sommelier at La Trompette, hosting a big Piedmont-themed wine lunch. Barolos and Barbarescos aplenty litter the room, but the wine that stops me in my tracks? A 2013 Moscato d’Asti from Giuseppe Vajra. It was phenomenal, still gleefully tasty, but now with a touch of extra weight, more waxy lime skin and late-evening summer flowers, heady in its bouquet. Here she was, my white whale, and, boy, she didn’t disappoint.  “Last December, visiting La Morandina in Asti, I asked whether they had anything with a bit of age and lo! a 15-year-old magnum appeared. My stars had aligned for a second time – the wine equally lovely, offering a bit more exotic spice, cardamom and coriander seed along with the sweet creamy lime zest. Crucially, this time I could see the germ of a plan. Each year, I would buy a cast of Moscato d’Asti, building a reserve of Moscato to steadily enjoy over the coming years. I’ll be the Christmas king of deliciously sweet floral fizz. So, on the morning of 25th, I’ll be twisting the top off the second bottle from last year’s case and smugly enjoying my Moscato and crumpet as I let my mind wander over the riches I’m preparing for the coming years.”  François Cotat Sancerre Le Mont Damné and Massican Gemina – chosen by Alex Sarovich, Founder and CEO of Own Rooted Hospitality  "As the oldest of five in a large Italian family, I've learned that selecting the perfect wine is an art form that requires careful consideration of both the food and the audience. When I'm hanging out with my twin 24-year-old brothers, they're all about vibrant, crisp wines like Champagne or Sancerre. If I can get my hands on it, I love surprising them with a bottle of Cotat’s Le Mont Damné, a truly exceptional wine that never fails to impress.  “In contrast, when I'm with my mom and aunt, we lean into our Italian roots. White wines from Italy are a staple in our household, especially when we're in the kitchen, cooking and preparing a meal together. This year, I'm planning to bring a bottle of Massican Gemina to our holiday gathering in McMinnville. This beautiful white blend, composed of Greco, Falanghina, and Fiano grapes from top California vineyards, perfectly captures the essence of our family's wine appreciation – a nod to our Italian heritage with a California twist.”  Coche-Dury Meursault, Domaine de Trévallon and Jean-Michel Gérin Côte-Rôtie La Landonne – chosen by Philippe Abadie of Alvina Pernot  “First of all, we decided to open a bottle of 2022 Meursault from Domaine Coche-Dury, given to us by a client to celebrate the birth of our son Pâris, who was born on January 1st 2022. We also really like the new style introduced by Raphaël since he took over this magnificent estate. Then Trévallon: my grandfather Georges from the south of France was an unconditional fan of the estate, and during my childhood there was always a bottle on festive tables (for birthdays, Christmas, New Year, etc) – so this will be a little wink to him. Then last, a bottle of Côte-Rôtie La Landonne by Jean-Michel Gérin. The story goes back to a few weeks after I first met Alvina, for this is the bottle of red we drank on our first restaurant date.”  2022 Domaine Yui A Rouge – chosen by Carlito Chiu, Wine Director at Andō, Hong Kong  “Established in 2019 by the dynamic husband-and-wife duo Tetsuya and Aya Sugiyama, Domaine Yui is a Japanese winery with a profound mission of unity and togetherness. Inspired by the meaning of the Japanese word “yui”, “to connect/link”, the Sugiyamas are dedicated to bringing people together through their shared love for wine and agriculture. Their A Rouge is a remarkable expression of Burgundy-style red wine crafted in Hokkaido, Japan – a specific blend of Pinot Noir, Chardonnay and Pinot Gris that showcases the region’s terroir. It is particularly special to me because it embodies the innovative spirit of Japanese winemaking, while honouring traditional techniques. For me, this wine represents the potential of Japanese terroir and the dedication of winemakers committed to producing world-class wines, making it a wonderful choice for celebrating the joy and warmth of the Christmas season.”  Read more Editorial

As friends and family gather together over Christmas, it’s the perfect time to pull the cork on something special. Here, some of the wine world’s biggest names – with leading sommeliers and top winemakers – to tell us what they’re cracking open this year, and why

Insight on what the wine world’s most famous names – sommeliers and star winemakers – are drinking over Christmas, from Salon Champagne to Vin de Constance 

What the wine world is drinking this Christmas

What those in the industry are drinking this Christmas

Peat in whisky is divisive – both in terms of its intense flavour profile, but also its sustainability. It has long been used in Scotch whisky, adding complexity to the region’s spirits, but has – over the last two decades – been thrust into the limelight.  Essentially, peat is baby coal – decomposed organic matter, in particular sphagnum moss, that takes thousands of years to form. Historically, these peatlands – wetlands such as bogs and fens – were used for fuel, especially where other energy sources weren’t readily available. Slabs of peat, cut out of the ground and left to dry, were burnt, valued for their ability to (like coal) smoulder steadily. Peat would have originally been used to heat pot stills, giving off intensely scented smoke that distillers eventually looked to capture.  Today, energy sources are largely more sustainable, and peat is used in significantly smaller volumes in the kilning process. After the barley has been malted, it is kilned (essentially dried). For peated whiskies, this is done (at least in part) over a peat-fed fire, so that the barley picks up the flavours from the smoke. This barley is then milled, mashed, fermented and distilled to produce the whisky, with the peat smoke lending flavours that range from soot, smoke and asphalt to seaweed and iodine.   Peatlands have been put in the spotlight with climate change, given their incredible capacity to hold carbon – and release it. As a NatureScot report (2023) states, “Although peatlands cover less than 3% of the world’s surface, it is estimated that they store double the amount of carbon held in global forest biomass and more than 30% of the total global soil carbon store (Bonn et al., 2016). Peatlands make up some 9.5% of the UK’s land area with an estimated carbon store of over 3,200 million tonnes, of which 1,600 million tonnes are estimated to be in Scotland (Bonn et al., 2016).” But while they have an impressive ability to lock away carbon, once peatlands are damaged they release some of that carbon – and the same report estimates that degraded peatlands account for circa 13% of Scotland’s carbon emissions. (It’s worth noting that the same institution – then known as Scottish National Heritage – came under fire in 2020 for its agreement with Diageo, allowing for unlimited peat extraction on Islay.)  Peat accumulates at a mere 1mm a year, so it’s easy to see why peat extraction is a hot topic. Protecting and restoring Scotland’s peatlands are firmly on the national agenda, and in 2020, the Scottish government announced £20 million earmarked for restoration, with a commitment to invest more than £250 million by 2030. Unsurprisingly, it’s put Scotch whisky’s use of peat under the magnifying glass. In reality, a fraction (just 1%) of Scotland’s peat goes to the spirits industry – with horticulture the main culprit.  As Bruichladdich’s Head Distiller Adam Hannett says, however, it has provided “a great lens to look at what we’re doing with peatlands”. For him, “It’s about responsible extraction.” Bruichladdich’s production director is also looking at restoration projects with local farmers. In 2021, two giants of the industry announced significant projects – one from Diageo’s Johnnie Walker, partnering with the RSPB to repair wetlands, and a more ambitious pledge from Beam Suntory, with its Peatland Water Sanctuary Initiative. The project aims to restore twice the volume that the company harvests for use in whisky production, with $4 million invested by 2040. Some producers – such as Nc’nean – have sworn off peat totally, while others are moderating usage, or looking for alternatives.   In Sweden – where peatlands represent up to 20% of the entire land area, Mackmyra’s Blender Lii Johnson explains how there is strict regulation around their usage. They are one of a growing number of producers looking to use peat as another way to explore their terroir. As few producers malt and kiln their own barley today, often this is shipped from Scotland (in turn adding to distilleries’ carbon footprints). At Mackmyra, they instead use Karinmossen – local peat, harvested around 40km south of the distillery – seasoned with juniper twigs. She estimates they use a mere 0.1% of the peat bog, bringing in around 30 cubic metres per year.  Johnson feels that it is the juniper in the Karinmossen, along with the small twigs they add (picked from the woods around the distillery), which give a light citrus, almost medicinal note to their peated malts. In Seattle, Westland has pioneered using local peat, and a process with a backhoe to keep the bog intact and limit their carbon footprint. Co-Founder and Managing Director Matthew Hofmann feels the local peat brings Mezcal-like aromas to their peated whisky, Solum.   This quest for sustainability, combined with emphasis on the concept of terroir in whisky, has had interesting results at distilleries around the world. In Minnesota, Brother Justus sources peat from the Boreal Forest and has trademarked a cold-peating process to produce more delicate aromas. Tasmanian distillery Lark looks to Browns Marsh for its peat (around one cubic metre a year) and has had the International Mire Conservation Group confirm that it is having zero impact on the marsh. Others are looking to use alternatives – New Zealand’s Thomson Whisky uses manuka, while Archie Rose has looked to Australian hardwoods and, perhaps most distinctively, Iceland’s Eimverk sources sheep dung from local farms in lieu of peat.  As we’ve touched on, however, it’s not just what is used to peat malt – but how it’s used, that impacts the flavour of the final whisky. “Duration, in my opinion, is the key,” says Mackmyra’s Johnson, emphasising that it is how long the barley spends in contact with the peat smoke that influences the level of peatiness, while it is only the type of peat (or peat alternative) that will effect the nature of the peat flavour. She explains how whether the barley is peated pre- or post-break is also important: it’s most common to do pre-break, as if it is done post-break, when the barley is largely dry on the surface, it doesn’t pick up phenols – the compounds that produce peat’s smoky flavours. For Mackmyra’s peated barley, it is kilned for one day with peat and then for a second day just with hot air.  There are other factors too however – with fermentation times and cuts often a focus. While longer ferments are generally thought to engender complexity, shorter ferments preserve phenols. There are three factions to a still run – the foreshots, heart and feints. The foreshots and feints, the liquid that runs off first and last, are generally discarded, and the cuts between these determine the character of the heart. Phenols generally come late in the distillation process, so later cuts can be preferential when looking for peat character. For Mackmyra’s Extra Rok 2.0 – an extra-peated malt, they do shorter ferments and a later cut, to preserve the phenols.   It's become fashionable to talk about “ppm” in peated whisky – parts per million (perhaps familiar to wine lovers as the same term that is used for sulphur levels), to measure the level of total phenolic compounds. It’s perhaps unsurprising that the compounds are the same as those for smoke taint, including guaiacol and 4-methylguaiacol, for example, but while in the world of wine these are avoided, distillers of peated whiskies have competed to produce the spirit with the highest. This race to make the peatiest whisky possible was arguably inspired by Compass Box’s Peat Monster (first produced in 2003), building to and culminating with Bruichladdich’s Octomore 8.3 (released in 2017) – a whisky with a remarkable 309ppm, the highest level measured to date (compare this to the first Octomore release which had 131ppm). In this frenzied period, Ardbeg’s Dr Bill Lumsden even buried a barrel of peated whisky in a peat bog (which was released as an NFT in 2022, Ardbeg Fon Fhòid). But while one number is an easy way for whisky drinkers to grasp how peaty a spirit is, not everyone believes it’s helpful.  “We don’t like to talk about those numbers,” says Johnson. She explains how ppms are somewhat farcical, in her view. When the reading is taken varies from distillery to distillery, and therefore provides something that is almost impossible to compare. While most are taken at the mashbill stage, if you are later blending, it’s an estimate at best. Not only that, but the make-up of the phenolic compounds will influence how peaty one 100ppm whisky is versus another 100ppm whisky. For Mackmyra, their pure peated malt sits at around 300ppm, but the mashbill for their peated and extra peated whiskies are respectively around 70 and 140ppm, Johnson reluctantly tells me. The level of phenols can also vary significantly between batches of barley – and at Mackmyra they aim to combat this by doing one kilning a year, distilling all their peated whisky at once and blending the batches to create a consistent product.  It's almost for this exact reason that Bruichladdich created Octomore, Head Distiller Adam Hannett explains. The project’s numbered releases have significantly different levels of peatiness, and were a project inspired by their curiosity to see how far they could push the peat level, as well as their partnership with Bairds maltings, who had batches of barley with irregular phenol numbers.   Although peat is intrinsically associated with Islay’s malts, things aren’t as clear-cut today – and as Hannett says, “You can’t categorise flavour by region”. Islay-based Bruichladdich produces both peated and unpeated whiskies. Originally the distillery made heavily peated malts, switching to unpeated styles in the 1960s, and today makes both. Its Port Charlotte brand was first conceived to capture what Bruichladdich would have been like in the old days, as a heavily peated malt. Intriguingly, Bruichladdich briefly tried using Islay peat, however found that they couldn’t get the phenol levels as high. Hannett highlights that another element in phenol levels is the depth the peat is cut from – with lower levels having more vegetation and therefore more phenols.  For Bruichladdich, when they’re looking for an overtly peated spirit, the quality of the underlying spirit is key – working with the right barley and fermentation times, for example. While peated malts might be thought of as heavy, oily and medicinal, they try to avoid this character. He deliberately won’t delay making a cut in the name of phenols, with that decision based on quality – and the result, he feels, is that, “The essence of the peat smoke is light – it’s barbecued.” For him, it’s about the balance between the peat character and everything else.  For blending specialists, House of Hazelwood, peated whisky “is a tool in our arsenal we can use to build a complex blend”, says Eilidh Muir from their Whisky Blending Team. She emphasises that using peat doesn’t necessarily equate to a smoky whisky, but can contribute something to a blend that is much harder to pin down – but something you’d notice if it wasn’t there. “A whisky dominated by a single flavour is often too one-dimensional,” she says – they too are looking for that fine balance.  Peat is just one element that can be used to shape a spirit – and there remains a certain amount of mystery to its influence. The sustainability question isn’t going away, but – as Bruichladdich’s Hannett says, “I don’t know what the solution is at the moment… but we’re looking for one.” As producers look for an answer, they’re pushing boundaries – experimenting with local sources and alternatives – something that will only benefit whisky-lovers, and the environment.  Browse a range of peated whisky or read more about spirits 

Iodine, seaweed, soot and smoke: for some, peat’s trademark tasting notes are off-putting, for others they’re the pinnacle of fine whisky. Sophie Thorpe spoke to Bruichladdich, House of Hazelwood and Mackmyra about peat, ppms, its potential sustainability problem, and how it’s being used today

Bruichladdich, House of Hazelwood and Mackmyra on peat – how it’s used, whether it’s sustainable and the alternatives being employed in whisky today

How whisky distillers are using peat today

The big smoke: peat and whisky

From humble beginnings in Beaujolais in the 1980s, the natural wine movement has become a global force. But what influence has it had just north in Burgundy’s long-established, terroir-focused appellations? Simon J Woolf explores the blurred line between classical and natural winegrowing

From Beaujolais to Burgundy, how has the natural wine movement shaped a terroir-driven region? For FONDATA Simon J Woolf explores the changing landscape.

Natural Wine’s Influence on Burgundy

Nature vs. Nurture: The quest for Burgundy’s true identity

Xiao-Li Meng, Whipple V. N. Jones Professor of Statistics at Harvard and Founding Editor-in-Chief of Harvard Data Science Review, was inspired by a student to combine wine and statistics—leading to insights far beyond what they ever expected.

From wine tastings to data science, Xiao-Li Meng explores how statistics reveals simplicity in complexity – one glass, experiment, and insight at a time.

Wine, statistics & serendipity: A Harvard journey

Seeking simplicity in statistics, complexity in wine, and everything else in fortune cookies 

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Pending

This is the dynamic estimated value of the item with trading margin removed.

This is the amount of profit you will receive if your listing sells.

Pre-authorised payments enable automatic transactions on your behalf, ensuring seamless and hassle-free payments. This allows recurring charges, subscriptions, or scheduled payments to be processed without manual approval each time.

The number of cases you wish to place on sale

Your catalogue item will be archived. Are you sure you want to continue?

Your catalogue items will be archived. Are you sure you want to continue?

Before you request delivery, you can adjust the quantity for each item in your selection below.

* At time of sale a 15% trading fee will be deducted from the final sale price.

Total estimated value*'

The fixed custom price you wish to sell each item for.

Split into {caseSize} individual {bottleSize}cl bottles.

Title

shows all the items you currently store with us. These items can be sold.

Available for sale — items stored with {name} eligible to be listed on the marketplace.

Profile

This item is at Vinfolio, available for storage or shipping. For more information on shipping and handling visit vinfolio.com/shipping

This item is at FINE+RARE HOME Hong Kong, available for delivery or local pickup. Most Hong Kong deliveries can be made within 3 working days, an exact date will be available when arranging delivery. International deliveries have longer lead-times, please contact us for details.

Wines sold en primeur will be released from the producer after bottling, typically 18 months after the so-called campaign ends. Upon arrival your wine will be stored at Vinfolio in our temperature-controlled warehouse until you decide to take delivery.

We will source this item at the guaranteed price from our network of suppliers and arrange expedited shipment to FINE+RARE.
 The lead-time depends on many variables, but 2-4 weeks is typical for expedited sourcing.
 Once your order is confirmed, we'll keep you updated on its ETA.
 Every item is checked on arrival by our expert team, with photographs available on request (please note that charges may apply).

When a wine is on "pre-arrival", it means that we have a confirmed order on the bottles from our supplier and we are simply waiting for the winery or distributor to ship the wine to us. The delivery timeframe for pre-arrival wines varies significantly, depending on where the wine is coming from. We will notify you once they arrive at our warehouse and, at that point, you can decide to arrange shipping or list them for sale.

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